


Alone And Colder

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2.17, when Ben is in the hospital and Brian leaves Vanguard to go support Michael, there's a conversation in the hospital hallway. Brian says "Remember when Justin was bashed, and you were about to get on a plane, and you came here and you sat with me for three days, waiting to see if he was gonna live or die. If it wasnt for you, I never would have made it. It was because of you. You're strong enough for both of us." So I thought, What if Michael was already on the plane when Brian called, so his cell was off, so he never went back to the hospital to sit with and support Brian? This fic came out of that. I'm not incredibly happy with some parts of it, but enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Brian's shaking fingers pull his phone out of his suit pocket. One hand in Justin's limp grasp, his eyes never leaving Justin's face, he blindly punches at numbers until he glances at the screen and realizes he's actually gotten them right. He presses Send and puts the phone to his ear. It seems to ring for an eternity; each trill seems longer than the last. He hears Michael's cheerful "Michael Novotny, please leave a message" and snaps the phone closed. He must already be on the plane. He shakes his head and presses redial. Same message. Fuck. He snaps the phone closed again and puts it away. He is distracted again by red—more red—blooming on the bandages around Justin's head. They keep redressing the wound. It won't stop bleeding. It won't stop bleeding.

He stares at the face, too still, to solemn, marred with red. The cold feeling is still in his gut, he can still feel the freezing concrete hard against his knees. He can still feel the warm red life trickling over his hands. The smell of blood and fear flood his nostrils. His ears echo over and over with the crack of wooden bat on bone. He realizes that someone is asking him questions. Is he allergic to anything? Where are his parents? How old is he? Does he have medical insurance? Brian rattles off the list of Justin's allergies that he had memorized long ago. Then he focuses on the second question. In a daze he tells the paramedic Jennifer Taylor's name and address. He's eighteen. He has medical insurance.

By the time they get to the hospital, the knot in Brian's stomach is cold and aching, constricting in time with his heartbeat—or is it Justin's? He keeps his eyes open wide, fighting back tears in order to keep Justin in his line of sight as he leaps out of the ambulance and follows the paramedics' long strides through double doors. Suddenly someone's hand is at his chest and he's being led to the hallway. He stands there, uncertain of what to do—what is he supposed to do with a hallway?—until someone pushes him down in a chair and leaves him to himself.

For a moment he just stares down the hallway. He remembers randomly the last time he was here; it was the first night he'd met Justin, the night Gus had come into the world. He remembers himself and Mikey and Justin racing through the maze of hallways, laughing and shoving each other, bumping into nurses and stumbling around patients. He wonders why things always have to begin and end in hospitals, why they always have to start and stop in the same place, the finish has to be the starting point as well.

He glances down at his hands, blinking them into focus, wondering what's in his grasp. They're covered in blood. Justin's blood. His fault. His hands go out of focus again and he doesn't even really notice as tears begin to slide down his cheeks. His fingers twitch and he feels the damp silk against his skin. He looks to see the pure white but sees only red marring everything. He twists the scarf in his fingers. Justin was wearing it. If he keeps a hold of it now, maybe Justin will live.

Justin will live. He shakes his head. Justin can't die. He can't. He's only eighteen, he's just a kid. He's just a kid and he's hot and innocent and Brian's loves him, dammit!

That thought makes Brian flinch, and he stops. He just stops. He stops moving, stops thinking, stops seeing. He practically stops breathing. He doesn't notice when Jennifer joins him in the hallway, looking strained and frantic, or when Debbie and Vic show up. Debbie goes straight to Jennifer, sitting beside her and taking her hand. She lets Jennifer sob into her blouse. Vic sits beside Brian, a few seats away, and casts worried glances at the still man.

Emmett and Ted come in as well, even though they didn't know Justin as well, followed by Daphne. The entourage is here. They huddle by Jennifer and Debbie, offering comfort. Every so often, one throws a furtive, concerned look Brian's way. Brian is staring at the wall. He hasn't bothered to rub away the tracks of tears, and every so often a new one trails its way down his face. The taste of blood is in his mouth, and he isn't sure why. He thinks he remembers kissing Justin's head and face, asking him to wake up, but he's not certain.

Daphne reaches a hand out to touch him gently, but she pulls away, eyes wide, when he doesn't seem to see her. Vic pats her shoulder gently. She says something to him, but Brian doesn't hear it, doesn't hear anything. It's as if someone has pressed mute on the world. On the blank wall in front of him, a movie seems to be playing. It's every one of his moments with Justin, but the one that keeps repeating is that kiss by the car.

"We gave them a prom they'll never forget."

"Me neither. It's the best night of my life."

And Justin's smile as he walked away, the hopeful look in his eyes as he turned…Brian doesn't think he'll ever forget this night either.

He's not sure how long he's been watching the films over and over on the wall, but eventually someone, maybe Ted, he thinks, approaches him. The person puts their hand lightly on his knee and he doesn't move. He doesn't think he can. He can barely even feel their touch, he only knows it's there because he can see the hand on his leg out of the corner of his eye.

"Brian?" The person asks. The sentence ends with an upward inflection, like a question, but Brian's not sure what they're asking. He can't answer, anyway. His mouth wont work. He's not sure he wants it to.

The hand inches forward a little, pinches a small still-pale edge of the scarf. "Brian, why don't I take this from you? It's ruined and—"

Fingers pull at the scarf and Brian is suddenly moving, yanking the cloth back to him, teeth bared, snarling, body tense and poised to strike. The hand releases and retreats. "Holy shit. Fuck. Okay."

No one tries to touch him after that. No one tries to comfort him. He goes back to staring at the wall. Someone seems to have un-muted the world now, because he can hear everyone again. He listens to the gentle whispers of the crowd around Jennifer, the little wheeze of Vic's breathing from a few seats away. He can hear someone down the hall whimpering, loudly, on the edge of screaming. He knows what that feels like. He wonders fleetingly how long he's been sitting there, but then he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to have an indicator of time, some way of knowing that Justin has been in there for longer than he should. He doesn't want to know how long this will take.

The wall of people parts and he can feel Debbie's eyes peering at him, examining him from across the room, as if she's willing him to look at her. He doesn't. He goes back to the movie.

"What's wrong with him?" Even gentle and soft, her voice seems too loud. He fights the urge to wince.

"I-I think he's gone catatonic." That's Emmett's voice, he suspects. "It's a common reaction to trauma."

"Where's Michael?" Daphne, she's beside him. Why isn't she with Jennifer?

Vic answers on his other side. "He's on a plane. To Portland. We can't reach him."

There's a silence. No one knows what to say. Brian can feel eyes on him. He's pretty sure everyone is staring at him. But he can't look away from the movie on the wall, he cant move and he doesn't want to do anything. The white noise in his brain is making it difficult to understand what others are saying. He knows it English, he knows the words, but he's not really registering anything.

They leave him alone. Some time passes; he isn't sure how much.

"I called Michael." Emmett is entering the room again. "He wishes he could fly back. But he's already in Portland and he doesn't have the money." Brian can feel eyes flit towards him.

Someone sighs. "How long has it been?" Brian wants to the mute to come back on, doesn't want to hear the answer to this question. A voice from the corner replies.

"Almost half a day." The owner of the voice is obviously looking at him. "Is he ever going to move?"

A doctor appears in the hall. Brian pries his gaze away from the movie on the wall and looks at the guy. Everyone's expectant gazes are the same. Jennifer stands, sniffling a little.

"Well?" Debbie is impatient.

The doctor looks frightened, shifts a little. "We still don't know. He's lost a lot of blood. There's damage to his brain, and he is bleeding profusely. We cant give him the normal medication because he is allergic to it, so in the meantime we need to find an alternative so they can complete the surgery."

Jennifer sinks into a chair. "How-how long until you know if he'll be okay?"

"That's not determined yet. We don't know."

That's when Brian begins to freak out.

The doctor has already turned on his heel and retreated back into the room. Everyone crowds around Jennifer again. White noise fills his brain, his stomach clenches coldly, his vision whites out and all he can smell is blood, all he can hear is static and the crack of a bat. Brian bites the inside of his cheek, hard. Maybe he'll wake up. He does it again. His teeth grind against each other, grind into his cheek. He wants to scream. It wont push past his throat.

Suddenly someone's hands are holding his arms away from him. Daphne is looking into his face, eyes wide with fear. Her hands are around his wrists. He looks at his own fingers. Tufts of short brown hair are clutched in his fists. He's shaking.

"Brian. Brian, stop." He puts his hands down, clutching the scarf to him again and biting hard at the inside of his cheek. The pain feels good. Sort of. He'd rather be numb, really, but he has to stay alert for Justin. The shaking wont stop.

"Why don't you all go home?" Jennifer's voice is stronger than it should be. "It's been nearly an entire day. I'll call Debbie if anything changes."

He can feel people nodding. A couple of people leave the room. In his peripheral vision, he can see Debbie hug and kiss Jennifer, Vic squeeze her shoulder. Debbie moves over to him. Her hand moves to touch his face, to kiss him, and he flinches back, growling like a wounded animal. She blinks and backs away.

"Brian, you should go too. Get some rest." Brian doesn't move. He doesn't even look towards Jennifer. He continues to stare. "Brian. Brian." Her voice is harder, more insistent. He doesn't respond.

"He's not going to leave, Mrs. Taylor." Daphne's voice is gentle.

"He needs to leave."

"He wont. He loves Justin. He's not going to leave."

Jennifer nods once. Daphne kisses her cheek. She approaches Brian, but does not touch him. Instead, she bends down to his eye level and waits until his eyes focus a little more on her than the wall.

"It's not your fault. And he knows both of those things." And then she's gone, and Brian can feel Jennifer's angry eyes boring into him as he goes back to the images on the wall, in his head.

Jennifer wont sit still. She fidgets, wringing her hands, playing with the straps on her purse, with the edges of her coat. Then she gets up and paces, stepping back and forth before leaning her head against the wall and breathing deeply. Repeat. Finally she tires and sits down. It's hours before Jennifer dozes off, drifting in and out of sleep. Brian can tell from her little snore, the way her breathing slows. He does not sleep. He can't. He doesn't even think he can close his eyes, not really. If he closes them he sees Justin's smile replaced with the image of his body lying motionless on the cold floor of the parking garage.

At some point during the night a doctor comes in and wakes Jennifer to tell them that Justin is still in critical condition and they still don't know if he's going to make it. Jennifer starts to cry again.

Brian gets up, ignoring the doctor's stare. He wanders around for a few moments, mind blank. He finally finds the sign pointing towards bathroom and goes in. He locks the door behind him and stands in front of the mirror. He's covered in blood. Justin's blood. He cant wash it away. He stares at himself in the mirror, but superimposed over his reflection is the damn movie of Justin, cold on the cement floor, blood seeping out and surrounding his head like a dark, painful halo. Brian rams his fist into the mirror. It cracks. He does it again. The sound of shattering glass is satisfying. Now some of the red is his as well. His heartbeat is thundering in his ears, and he thinks about the day before, in the ambulance, when Justin's heart had stopped beating, and Brian had desperately wanted to be the one lying there on the stretcher.

This time he does scream, stuffing his fists in his mouth and letting the sound wrench from his gut and rattle around his fingers. For a moment, he sinks to the dirty floor, but then rage is taking over the utter despair and he's up again, punching and slashing blindly at the tiled wall with both fists the way he'd wanted to do to Hobbes's face. He only stops when he hears the rattling of the doorknob.

"Sir? Is everything all right in there?"

He's panting, sweat rolling down his face, mingling with tears. His knuckles are cut up, blood dripping between his fingers. Bruises are already forming. He glances into the cracked mirror. He looks a mess. He's suddenly not sure if he'll survive this wait, this pain, these visions flashing through his mind. He looks at himself in the mirror, then at the sink. But there's a sudden realization that if he washes the blood off his hands, the life off his hands, Justin might slip away. He might never see him again. He tries to breathe, to calm himself. And then he answers.

"Fine." He's amazed at how certain he sounds. He hears footsteps recede. He steps out of the bathroom and goes back to his seat. Jennifer frowns when she sees his hands but says nothing. He spends the rest of the night staring at the wall again. When Jennifer falls asleep he lets the tears fall.

In the morning—he thinks it's the morning, there are no windows or clocks to be seen—Debbie, Vic and Daphne come back. Daphne sits beside him and tells him softly that her parents ungrounded her so she could go and visit Justin as much as she wanted. She asks him what happened to his hands but he says nothing.

"He hasn't said a word." Jennifer says to her. "Absolutely nothing. He got up once last night. I don't know where he went. He won't move otherwise." She seems confused, almost awed at his lack of movement. He wants to tell that he's not going anywhere, he can't.

The rest of the day is spent the same way as the last. Everyone is crowded around Jennifer, who has Debbie seated beside her, arm around her shoulder. Every so often, Brian feels a concerned glance thrown his way. Daphne and Vic sit on either side of him, at least a seat away. Somehow everyone knows not to touch him.

On the third day a doctor comes in and tells them that Justin is going to live, but he's in a coma and they're not sure when he's going to wake up. The group lets out a collective breath, and Jennifer asks if she can see him. The doctor nods and gives her the room number. Brian hears everything, but he does not react. Jennifer glances nervously at him as she passes to go see her son. Brian can breathe a little easier, but it still feels like he's wheezing through gauze.

When Jennifer comes from the room, she looks at once comforted and shaken. Debbie takes her hands.

"He looks like he's sleeping. He looks awful. He…" She peters off. Debbie puts an arm around her shoulders and begins to lead her down the hallway.

"Let's go down to the cafeteria. You need to get some food in you. Come on." Jennifer nods and lets Debbie guide her away. Vic stands to follow. Daphne touches his shoulder lightly, pulling away as if he might bite.

"Brian? Do you want me to get you some food." He realizes that he hasn't eaten in three days, but he isn't hungry. He shakes his head. It's hardly there, but she sees it. She sits back down. Vic follows Debbie and Jennifer down the hallway.

Brian sits there, in the hard plastic chair, an anger at himself, at Justin, at the world, boiling away in his belly, growing and oozing it's way around his other organs, until he cant sit still any longer. He bursts into action, and Daphne is helpless to stop him because his anger is propelling him, and it wont stop no matter how much she tugs at his arm or calls his name. She has to run to keep up with his immense strides as he paces down the hall to the room where Justin is.

He shoves the door open and some part of his brain is shocked at the juxtaposition of Justin, that he looks so peaceful and yet his face is bloody and his head is wrapped in bandages. But he doesn't stop, he just bends down right in Justin's face, near his ear.

"Wake up, you little twat. You have to fucking wake up. Your mother is bawling her eyes out and it's annoying as hell, Deb won't leave me alone and if you don't wake up I'm going to kill someone. Come on, Sunshine, wake up so you can yell at me and tell me it's my fucking fault you're here in the first place, because if I hadn't come to your stupid prom, that kid wouldn't have…." The image of the swinging bat flashes in front of his eyes. "Wake up so you can hit me and tell me to leave you the fuck alone because it's all my fault and I got you hurt. Wake up so I can leave you to live your life, so I don't have to worry about getting you hurt. Wake up, you little fucker, because I-I…" He's not sure what he's about to say, but his throat closes shut and he hits his thigh with his fist. His voice raises in volume, in anger. "Fuck! Wake the hell up, you asshole! You cant just keep us fucking waiting here! I know you're a stupid selfish little kid, but your fucking family's out there waiting for you to wake up and you're lying here in a fucking coma. Don't you have anything else better to fucking do? Shouldn't you be with Daphne, working on some ridiculous summer project? Shouldn't you be helping Lindsay with the GLC? Shouldn't you be in the loft, sketching me naked? Why wont you fucking wake up! Goddamit! Wake the fuck up!"

He feels hands tugging him back, Daphne's and someone else's. He looks and sees the doctor he fucked when Ted was in a coma, too. But the doctor's face is angry, not at all gentle and fearful like Daphne's and he tugs Brian out of the room and shoves him out and down the hallway.

"He's not going to wake up, Brian. Not if you yell at him." Daphne's voice is gentle but full of tears and something else.

"Go home, Mr. Kinney." Brian wheels, fist raised, but turns and punches the wall, splitting open his cut knuckles again, and marches outside. He hails a cab. The guy lets him get in and Brian gives his address.

"Uh, Mister, you have….you're….do you know you're bleeding?" The cabbie is staring at him as he pulls into traffic.

"It's not my blood." Is all Brian will say. Then he stares out the window with no expression. When the cabbie drops him off, he tosses some random amount of money at the driver, not even caring if it's too much.

He punches in the code and goes into his loft. Then he sits down on the couch and stares at nothing. He gets up and strips off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, lies down on Justin's side of the bed. How many nights has Justin spent here? What if he never spends another night? He turns into the pillow, trying to catch Justin's scent. It's barely there, as if it's in a coma too, as if it's leaving him too. Brian closes his eyes, but the sound of the bat, of the flatline in the ambulance, the vision of all that fucking blood, invades his senses and he can't. He can't stay awake, but he can't sleep. Justin's not going to wake up. He can fucking feel it. If Justin won't wake up, neither will he. He stares at the scarf in his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Debbie who finds him. She's gone over to the loft to bring him some food, to make sure he's going to eat at least one meal after four days. She'd gone to the hospital, but he wasn't there, and Daphne told her he'd been thrown out when he went into Justin's room and started yelling at him to wake up.

So she decides to be the surrogate mother she's always been. She brings him his favorite diner food and some lemon bars, just so he'll eat, maybe. She's seen him in shock and pain before, though, after some particularly bad beatings from Jack. She's pretty sure he won't eat, but it doesn't hurt to have food on hand. She punches in the door code, holding all the food in her other hand. She wrenches open the heavy door without spilling the containers and heads up the stairs.

When she knocks on the door, there's no answer. She knocks again and when there's still silence, she realizes that Brian must have gone into survival mode, which mainly consists of drinking, so he must be passed out in bed or something. Briefly, she curses Jack Kinney for passing such a horrible habit and tradition down to someone like Brian, then she puts a comforting smile on her face and tries the door. It slides open easily, and she wonders if it was even shut all the way. She steps in and turns, closing it and making sure it's all the way shut this time. She spins around, checking her bra for the spliff she'd hidden earlier, it's still there.

"Brian?" She calls, stepping into the room. "Bri—"

She drops the Styrofoam containers of soup and sandwich. She feels the soup splash at her feet, burning her toes through her shoes and staining her bright blue slacks, it's hot and it hurts but she doesn't care. She doesn't register the burns, the slide and squeak of her shoes on the liquid. She steps on the sandwich as she takes a few steps forward, but then she can't move any further. She's frozen in place. She puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes sad.

"Oh, Brian." Her throat catches. It's low and sympathetic, with a tinge of nostalgia. She remembers days, midnights, years ago, when her boys were in high school, when Brian would lock himself in her bathroom. She remembers late night talks with him, after Michael had gone to sleep, when he would tell her and Vic of his solemn wish to die, tell them that he wasn't sure he could make it through this life, he didn't want to live, didn't want to face this shit every day, didn't want to face Jack's fist or protecting Mikey or the loneliness he felt, even with Michael doting at his side. She remembers when he would pull himself together in the morning, paste his 'don't fuck with me face' on over sleepless, haunted eyes for Michael, would put an arm around his friend's shoulders like he was the most badass thing in the world, and Michael would stare up at him with adoration, completely oblivious to the mental torment and anguish his idol was going through every night.

She remembers his pain. He owned it like he had the right to it, yet at the same time, it seemed to consume him, to take him over until he couldn't feel anything else. Until he didn't recognize anything else. Until he didn't want to let anything else in, lest it heal his agony or hurt him more than his current pain. Until this blond kid came along and wormed his way inside with persistence and trickery and kindness. And now…

She can't seem to stop staring. He's beautiful, even now. She thinks it's weird to think that, but it's true. Even his beauty is painful, and even his pain is beautiful. She realizes that this thought sounds like something out of some stupid women's book club novel. But he looks amazing. His skin is pearly, but still beautifully tanned. He looks like a wax figure, he looks preserved and fake and perfect. His chest is bare, his shirt open. Sweat still glistens on his neck. She can see the salty wet trail left by too many tears. His upper lip is smeared with blood; his hands are covered with it. But Debbie remembers what he looked like last night in the hospital, and she knows it isn't his.

The scarf around his neck— the one that implemented his death— she assumes it had once been beautiful, but the only time she'd seen it was in the hospital, marred with Justin's blood. She can practically feel the guilt that the silk carried for Brian. She has an absurd moment of wondering, if the scarf broke, would Justin die too? In the hospital it had seemed like a lifeline for Brian. It seems that maybe if this lost artifact, the marred piece of shrapnel that was once beautiful and flowing, if it stays whole, covered with Justin's life, the life that coats it will be uninterrupted.

The insistent honking of a car horn down on the street brings her back to reality. She trips over to Brian's computer desk, dials 911, tells them what happened. Then she sits heavily down on the couch and stares at the perfect body suspended beside the bed.

Debbie watches the paramedics as they ease Brian's body down to the floor. One of them asks her if she needs anything. She shakes her head and then picks up the phone again. The first person she calls is Vic. He comes over. The paramedics let him in when Debbie tells him that Vic is her brother. He hugs her tightly and sits down beside her on the couch. His eyes are full of tears. He and Brian were close and had a bond in the way that only late nights and too early mornings creates.

She tries to reach Michael next, but his cell phone is off and she doesn't know the number of Dr. Dave's house, so she leaves a message to him, trying to hold back tears. She wants to call Brian's mother, or his sister, but she knows that Brian wouldn't want them notified. She knows that it would be against his wishes to let them know. Instead, she calls Daphne's cell phone.

Daphne answers, breathless. "Yeah? Hello?"

"Daphne, sweetie?"

"Hey, Deb. I'm at the hospital with Justin. I had to walk out to the waiting room." Daphne seems to hear the heaviness over the phone. "Debbie? What's wrong?"

"Daphne, Brian….he…" For one of the few times in her life, Debbie cant find the words. Daphne seems to understand, anyway. The heavy silence on the other end seems to signify this. "Daphne?"

"I'll be there in a bit. I have to say goodbye to Justin."

Debbie sniffles, says goodbye, glad for Daphne's understanding of the situation. She's glad that at least Daphne believes that coma patients can hear the people talking to them. Daphne gets there as the cops are arriving. She walks in and goes straight to the couch, hugging Debbie, then Vic. She seems more adult than ever. Then she turns to the paramedics, who have just finished closing the black body bag that just makes it seem so goddamn final. She taps one of them on the shoulder.

"Can I see him?" Debbie begins to stand, to protest, but Vic's hand on her shoulder stops her. The paramedic frowns and looks to the two adults on the sofa. At Vic's small nod, he takes Daphne's arm in a gentle grip and steers her over to the gurney. She takes a deep breath and then looks into the paramedic's face. When he seems to have deemed her strong enough, he nods to his companion and the zipper slowly pulls back.

Debbie forces herself to watch Daphne's face and not the hand slowly pulling back the plastic-coated cloth. The girl's expression is sad but stoic, and she stares bravely down as the bag peels away. Her eyes get very, very wide, but they stay dry as her shoulders slump and her expression darkens. She reaches out as if to touch his still face, but pulls back in time when she doesn't feel his breath across her fingertips. Suddenly her face crumples and she trudges slowly back to Vic and Debbie.

"God." Her voice is full of pain. Her eyes do not move from the floor as she sits down. "He looks like he's sleeping." Debbie nods silently. Then Daphne looks up at her, eyes filling with tears. "What are we going to tell Justin?"

Debbie takes the bus to Jennifer's house, biting her nails the whole time, uncertainty filling her. She's not sure what she's going to say, she's not sure what she's going to do, she's not sure how Jennifer is going to react, she's not sure how to help. Finally she's at her stop and she gets off and walks the few blocks over to Jennifer's. She knocks on the door, still chewing her bottom lip.

She's actually kind of surprised when Jennifer answers, because she really would have expected her to be at the hospital with Justin. But Jennifer's hair is wet, and she's not wearing any makeup, so she must have come home to shower and eat.

"Debbie, hi." Jennifer lets her in. Debbie is suddenly very glad it's a school day, and Molly isn't here. Jennifer looks into her face, sees her expression, the darkness in her eyes. She frowns, her own expression dampening.

"Debbie? What's wrong?" Debbie bites her lip and wrings her hands, still unsure. This whole thing just seems so surreal, and she feels like she's living in a fog, going in slow motion while everything else is on fast forward around her.

"I came here to tell you…to tell you..." Jennifer leads Debbie to the sofa, which she sinks down into and covers her mouth with her fingers. Jennifer sits down beside her. "This morning I went to Brian's to make sure he'd eat something after four days. I found…I found…Shit." She hits her leg with an open palm, frustrated with her own hysteria. "Brian's dead, Jennifer. He-he killed himself. Hung himself with that goddamn scarf."

Now Jennifer is the one who is covering her mouth with her fingers. Debbie knows she never really liked Brian, but at least she has the decency to show some respect and sympathy.

"Oh my god!" She lowers her hand and in a soft voice asks, "But why?"

And this is where Debbie actually knows what's going on. She knows Brian. She knew even before he did that he loved Justin, and she knew his mind well after late night talks when he was young.

"I think he was convinced that Sunshine isn't going to wake up. He's-he's a complete pessimist, can't ever imagine anything good happening to him. He blamed himself. You know, for Justin getting hurt. I think he thought that we all blamed him, too. And he is- oh, god, was- so in love with Justin. I know, I know you didn't see it, and I know most everyone else couldn't see it either, but I've known that boy since he was fourteen, and I've learned how to see him. He can't fool me. They way he looks at Sunshine and talks to him and everything. Hell, he let him come live with him. That's huge for Brian. I just…I think he finally fell in love, felt vulnerable but safe around Justin. I think he finally let his guard down and when he went…to that dance…and-and saw what he saw…it hurt him."

"You're saying his death is Justin's fault."

"Oh, Jennifer, no! I'm saying that it's because of his, his love for Justin. I think that he got it in his head that Justin isn't going wake up. I think he didn't want to face that. He felt guilty for Sunshine getting hurt, and…" She doesn't want to voice her real thoughts, because she knows Jennifer doesn't want to hear them. And because she knows they're true. _And he didn't want to live if Justin isn't going to. He didn't want to be without him._

Jennifer nods, she seems to hear what Debbie doesn't want to say, and her face softens a little. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Sweetie. Just…what are we going to tell Justin when he wakes up?"

Jennifer frowns and picks at the knit of her sweater, rolling the little pills of cotton between her fingers. "I…don't know. Let's just think about this all one thing at a time. First let's make sure Justin wakes up."

Debbie nods and pulls Jennifer into a hug. The two women hold each other, both sad and worried over a small blonde boy in the hospital.

They have to wait almost more than half a week for the autopsy to make sure it was suicide and not foul play, even though everyone knows it wasn't foul play. Brian's lawyer knocks on Debbie's door and tells her that Brian gave her the responsibility of funeral preparations and that he does not want his biological family involved. He tells her that his will stated that money be given to her and Michael, a fund started for Gus, that she has say of what happens to the loft and the items in it and any of the rest of his possessions. He also tells her that his personal effects will be given to her when the police are finished with them.

Michael is a blubbering mess, but Vic's strong support helps her and together she and her brother get the funeral preparations done. Debbie wants so badly to call Joan or Claire and tell them what happened, but she is going to honor Brian's wishes, because it's the least she can do. She tucks his personal effects away in a box under her bed so she can look at them later and figure out what to do with them.

They wait another week to hold the funeral, just in case Justin wakes up, because he's been showing signs of surfacing consciousness for days now. But he doesn't wake, and they don't want to wait too long.

The funeral is small and somber. Michael can only make it out for the day, because his new job in Oregon won't let him have more time. The group huddles together, as much for comfort as for warmth. It's springtime, but still everyone feels colder than usual. The service is very short, and not very religious. Debbie is pretty sure Brian is fucking some angel and laughing at them right now.

They don't really have a reception; they just go to Debbie's and get stoned. Sitting in her living room, sprawled out on the furniture, they tell stories about Brian, about the first time they met him, what they loved about him, what they hated, what they miss, secrets about him that the others don't know. They celebrate him with Jim Beam and lots of weed. There is laughter, but it's only surface, because a dark line of sadness is running beneath everything, permeating their thoughts and darkening the doorways.

It's another half week before Justin wakes up, and Jennifer tells everyone but Daphne to just stay away for a little while, until they figure out what to do. Daphne is good at hiding her sadness, apparently, so Justin suspects nothing. Jennifer says he always asks "Where's Brian?" and she doesn't know how to answer. Everyone knows that sooner or later he's going to have to know the truth.

Jennifer calls Debbie after a few weeks and tells her that she can come visit Justin, he needs some variety. But she warns her not to tell Justin about Brian; they still don't know how to break it to him. Debbie bakes Justin a whole plate of lasagna, because she knows he loves it.

She gets funny looks walking through the hospital dressed in bright colours with a pan of lasagna in her arms, but she ignores them. The walk down the hospital corridors just reminds her of Brian, and a sadness overcomes her. She pastes on a smile and tries to push away the depression.

Justin smiles when Debbie walks in the room, but it's not as bright as usual. She sets the pan down on a side table and shovels a heaping helping onto a paper plate for him.

"Thanks." He digs in, using his left hand, she notes.

"How's it going Sunshine? You look great."

"It's really fucking frustrating." He says to his lasagna, he's too busy scarfing down his lunch to look at her. "This is really good." He says around a mouthful. Debbie gives a small chuckle.

"I know. It's your favorite." Her breath hitches as she realizes that that's what she always says to Brian when she brought him tuna casserole and weed. She covers the sound with a cough, then pastes a smile on again. "Your mom says you're doing great."

"Yeah, except for my fucking gimp hand. Fucking Hobbes."

"Well, you just keep working at it, Sweetie."

Justin finally looks up at her. He frowns as he picks up on her false cheeriness as soon as he looks at her face. "Deb? What's wrong?"

She's caught. Her face falls. "Shit."

"Debbie?"

"Nothing, Sweetie, nothing's wrong."

"Deb, please. You're not very good at hiding it when you're upset. Please just tell me."

Debbie glances out the window towards the hallway, uncertain. She doesn't know what to say. Silently, she gets up and goes out to Jennifer.

"Jennifer…he knows I'm upset. He's asking what's wrong. Should I tell him?"

Jennifer chews on a fingernail. "I don't know. Yes, I suppose. He wont stop asking until someone tells him, anyway. You should tell him, though. You love them both. I don't know Brian."

Debbie nods and squeezes Jennifer's shoulder reassuringly, then makes her way back into the room. Justin looks up from the bed, where he's picking absently at the weave of the cloth. There is a deep frown on his face, and he chews his lip.

"Deb?"

Debbie sinks into a chair beside the bed and takes Justin's left hand, his good hand. "Sweetie, I have some bad news."

"It's about Brian, isn't it." It isn't a question. Debbie nods.

"He waited in the hospital until they told us that you were okay. But when he found out that you were in a coma, he was convinced you wouldn't wake up. He was certain you be there forever. He came into your room and yelled at you to wake up, and when you didn't, he went home and…" She swallows. "Brian is…is…Brian's dead, Honey. He killed himself." Debbie wishes to god there was a better way to say this. She wishes she didn't have to see Justin's face crumple.

"You're lying. No. It's not true."

"Baby, I'm sorry. I was the one who found him. It's true."

"No." Justin sits up very straight. "No. He's just at home, getting some rest. He'll come see me. I know he will."

"Justin…" Debbie reaches out to put a hand on his knee, but he knocks it away.

"It's not true!" Justin scrambles off the bed and stands there, panting, swaying. Debbie isn't sure what to do, so she moves to him, putting out her hand to touch his shoulder. "Don't _touch_ me!" He shoves her, hard, and she's amazed at the strength he has despite his current condition. She stumbles a little and watches as Justin grabs a plastic jug of water off the tray and hurls it at the wall. Jennifer hears the noise and comes running in, but neither of them know what to do. They watch, frightened and appalled, as Justin continues to tear at and throw anything he can get his hands on, the sadness and fury rolling off him in waves.

"Sweetie—" But Justin ignores her.

"Sunshine—" And Justin whirls around, fiery eyes glaring at Debbie.

"No! _Don't_ call me that. No. No." Suddenly, all the fight seems to drain out of him and he sinks to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and curling into a ball. "No." he whispers again, his body suddenly limp. As tears run unnoticed down his face, his eyes dull from bright, burning anger to an empty, unseeing grey. Jennifer starts towards him.

"Honey?" Justin turns dead eyes toward her, but seems to look right through her.

"Just leave me alone." He croaks, and buries his head in his arms. Debbie takes Jennifer's arm and leads her out to the hallway, closing the door to give Justin some privacy. Jennifer sinks into a chair. Debbie puts a hand on her shoulder.

"Listen, Jennifer, um…Brian made me responsible for all of his possessions and the loft and things. Once Justin calms down, I want to ask him if he wants anything."

Jennifer nods mutely. Debbie sits with her until her shift at the diner is about to start, then she takes the bus back to Liberty Avenue. When he shift is over, she goes to the loft. She enters slowly, glancing warily around as if Brian might be hiding in a corner or fucking a trick in the bed. But there's no one there, and she feels absurdly disappointed. She notices Brian's leather jacket draped almost carelessly on a kitchen chair, and she picks it up. She wanders around the loft, looking at the visible bits of Brian's life. On the small table behind the computer, she pauses. Various framed awards for ads he's done are scattered about the glass top. But so is a photo of the family one night at Debbie's eating dinner. Brian's not in the picture, so she assumes he's the one who took it. There's also a photograph of Brian and Gus, both half-asleep, lying together on Lindsay's couch. Debbie resists the urge to sigh at the sweetness. There's also a photograph, sitting behind the others, of Justin drawing at the living room table, grinning at the camera behind which Brian was obviously standing. There's love and adoration and happiness and teasing laughter behind his eyes. Tears well up in Debbie's eyes as she realizes that they may never see this carefree, happy look in Justin's eyes again.

She goes back to the hospital, the leather jacket and one of Justin's sketchpads under her arm. Jennifer is not there. Justin is silent when she hands him the jacket, but she watches through the window after she leaves, and sees him wrap himself in the jacket and clutch it to his face, breathing Brian's scent deep. Her heart breaks as she watches him shatter through the wired window, his muscles tightening and clenching until he's lying on his side in the fetal position, wrapped in Brian's jacket, tears falling, mouth working, silently crying out words of denial and please and _no_.

She's there when the doctor tells Jennifer that Justin's improvements are coming very slowly, and that Justin may have to be released from the hospital later than expected, because he hasn't been doing his exercises and he is not participating in therapy. Jennifer and Debbie look at each other; they both know it's because of Brian.

Debbie won't let anyone into the loft. She tells the cleaning lady to stop coming for now, makes Michael give her his key. She doesn't know what to do with the space, but she doesn't want other people's presences, other people's scents to destroy the place that is purely Brian.

Justin sleeps every night with the jacket wrapped around him, and Debbie notices that he's drowning in the too-big leather just as he's drowning in the hurt and anguish that is too large for an eighteen year old boy. It's a while before they discharge him from the hospital. When they wheel him out—stupid hospital policies, Debbie grumbles—Justin is dressed in tan cargo pants and a light blue t-shirt, his upper body swimming in the shining black. He's been unnaturally quiet the past few weeks, simply staring at nothing, retreating into his head. When they step out into the bright sunshine, Justin wraps the dark leather tighter around himself and puts his head down.

Justin stays with Jennifer, but after a few weeks he can't stand the tears and the mothering and the worrying and he sneaks out, calls Daphne and she drives him to Debbie's. They sit in her kitchen, eating cookies and milk, Daphne talking about something she and September did the other day. Justin listens quietly, his face blank, but his eyes dark and pained. He doesn't smile. Debbie calls Jennifer and leaves a message telling her where Justin is and that she doesn't think she should come over right away. After a while, Daphne needs to get home, so they bid her farewell and then it's just Debbie and Justin sitting at the table, with Vic dozing on the couch, a newspaper on his chest.

Debbie surveys Justin's face softly for a moment as he stares down at nothing, then reaches over and pats his hand.

"Stay here for a sec. I've got something to give you Sunsh—Justin." Justin nods once and continues to stare at the tabletop. Debbie pushes her chair back and heads upstairs. She pulls the box out from under her bed and puts on top, pushing off the lid for a moment to stare down inside it. She went through it a few days earlier, deciding what to do with everything. The personal effects aren't much: his dress pants and shirt, a burgundy tie, his wallet, the stained white scarf, a silver Zippo, a pack of cigarettes, a joint hidden in the lining of his shirt, a cowry shell bracelet with the initials _B.K._ inscribed in it.

She brings the box down and sets it on the table in front of Justin. He slowly pulls off the lid and looks down into it. He picks up Brian's dress pants and shirt, brings them to his face and inhales deeply, but the smell of Brian on them has already been mostly replaced by the smell of latex police gloves and disinfectant. He sets them aside. He flips open Brian's wallet, stares at it, takes out the drivers license and puts it on the table, then places the wallet very neatly on top of the folded clothes. He smirks a little, just barely a lip crick, when he sees the joint, but he flicks the Zippo with his left hand and lights it, takes a drag and hands it to Debbie. They pass it back and forth. Justin turns his attention back to the box and stops. His fingers delicately pull the soiled scarf from the bottom of the box and settle it on the table. He touches it lightly, avoiding the blood-hardened splotches, feeling the still-pure white bits.

"I think I remember this." He whispers. "But I'm not sure." He can't seem to stop staring at his own blood until Debbie slowly pulls the cloth away, folds it, and puts it neatly on the pile.

The last thing in the cardboard box is the cowry shell bracelet. Justin holds it in both hands, reverently, as if it holds Brian's soul itself. Debbie wonders if maybe it does.

"Where did he get it?" Justin rubs his fingertips over Brian's initials. He's never seen Brian without the bracelet, besides in the shower, Debbie realizes. He doesn't know its history. Well, neither does Michael, really.

"Mexico. Right after he graduated from college, his dad really laid into him. Didn't hit him at all, Brian was big enough to fight back, but he yelled at him about not takin' care of family, all this bullshit about staying where he oughta. By that time, you know, he was already a fucking genius, he was making okay money. He bought a ticket to Mexico. He told me, 'I'll show him leaving. Fuck him, I can do what I want. He's not my family.' He went and, presumably, fucked his brains out. He came back with this. Lindsay told me that cowry shells are supposed to represent prosperity and sexual power, and maybe that's why he bought it. I think he wore them in order to remember that family isn't always blood."

Justin stares down at the shells. "No, Deb, it's not." He wraps the bracelet around his right wrist, attempting to tie it off one-handed, until Debbie reaches across and ties it for him, securing Brian's keepsake to his arm.

She sits back and regards him for a moment. "Listen, Sweetheart, Brian gave me the responsibility of dealing with his possessions and deciding what goes where and to whom and all that shit." Justin nods to signal that he is listening. "I'd like you to come with me to the loft and help me sort out his things. The loft is all paid for, and I need to decide what to do with it, too."

"But what about Michael?"

Debbie grimaces. "Michael cant leave his new job. And, Brian loved you, really truly, he did. I want you to be with me for this. I know Brian loved my son, but never in the way that he adores you. He never meant as much to him as you do."

Justin nods, fingering the bracelet around his wrist.

The next day, Justin meets Debbie at the door to the loft, suddenly glad that they are now the only two with keys. When they unlock the door, he's met head-on with the scent of Brian. Debbie watches as he steps slowly into the loft, almost gliding up the stairs to the bedroom. He lies down on Brian's side of the bed, tugging the sheet over him and burying his face in the pillow. Debbie feels her heart break for the poor kid; how much pain can one person take? She stands for a moment and observes as Justin clutches at the pillow, taking in the scent of Brian in large, shuddering gasps. He turns for just a moment and she can see the pain in his eyes, deeper than she could ever imagine. It's as if something black has grown inside him, a pit so deep and wide that you can look into it through his eyes and never see the bottom, because maybe, she thinks, there isn't one. It hurts her to see someone so young, so incredibly lost and broken, and there's absolutely nothing anyone can do to help.

She makes her way out to the kitchen and potters around, making noise to give Justin some privacy, but even so, she hears a sound like wounded animal over her clanging. It's harsh and agonizing and makes her want to cry. She puts down her kitchen utensils and slowly approaches the bedroom. Justin is lying on his side, rocking ever so slightly. His left arm is wrapped around the pillow, his right hand pulled protectively against his body. She can see his right hand shaking and twitching. He makes a strangled noise and clenches his teeth as if holding back screams.

Debbie sits down beside him on the bed, not touching him. "Honey, we can do this later, if you want?"

Justin takes a few gulping breaths and wipes his eyes. He shakes his head. "No," he says in a broken voice. "I want to do this."

Together they go through Brian's clothes, only they're not sure what to do with them. Justin takes off the leather jacket for a moment in order to slide on one of Brian's white V-necked shirts. Debbie watches as he sits on the bed, fingers plucking at the sheet.

"Debbie…" he starts, and he sounds uncertain and sad and unbelievably tired. "What are you going to do with the loft?"

"I don't know, Hon."

He looks up at her, blue eyes dulled to a grey and face too lined for a kid his age. "Can I stay here?"

Debbie looks at him. She hadn't thought about that. She realizes that Justin probably doesn't want to stay with his mother, and also probably doesn't want to stay with her, because she is as much his mother as Jennifer. Brian seems to have been Justin's comfort zone, and he had mostly been living at the loft before then. It makes sense for him to have it, to live in it.

"Yeah, honey, if you'd like."

"I'd like that. Please." She nods and at least a bit of the shadow seems to lighten from Justin's face.

Together they sort through the various things that Brian doesn't need. In a drawer, Justin finds his drawing from the GLC art show. He stares at it for a long time, before whispering "Fuck" in a voice that sounds like it has torn and clawed its way out of his throat. He drops the drawing on the bed and goes into the bathroom, sliding the door shut behind him. Debbie hears the water start, a muffled sound that starts like a scream and turns into a sob. Justin doesn't come out for a long time.

When it's time to choose a stone for the grave, everyone in the family contributes their ideas as to the epitaph. Most agree on one thing that should be there, Brian's motto: No excuses, no apologies, no regrets. Justin agrees.

But before Debbie goes in to finalize the words, Justin adds his own line. Debbie's eyes fill with tears and she nods, scribbling it down. When the family goes to visit Brian's grave, everyone but Debbie and Justin are surprised by the extra line below Brian's manifesto. But everyone agrees as they read it: _He loved_.


End file.
